


the worst thing that I ever did

by evenifwecantfindheaven



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Anthony x Siena, Babies, F/M, I welcome all comments and critiques about my writing, I'm not required to agree with you just because series canon didn't work out the way I wanted, OCs - Freeform, Santhony, but if you came here to yell at me for shipping Santhony then keep on walking, not exactly Violet or Cressida friendly either, tw minor character death, tw stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29646561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenifwecantfindheaven/pseuds/evenifwecantfindheaven
Summary: After Anthony and Siena part ways, Anthony allows his mother to arrange a wedding between him and Cressida Cowper. After a brief and highly unpleasant marriage, Cressida dies, and Anthony learns what has become of Siena in the meantime.
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton/Siena Rosso
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	the worst thing that I ever did

She had asked him to let her go, and he had tried.

He had danced with prim, floral, elegant young ladies who his mother forced on him, smiled at them, made polite chatter, graciously excused himself to go speak with a friend or tend to a sister after each dance. It felt dirty. How fair was it for him to kiss a young woman’s hand with the only thoughts in his mind being that those hands weren’t hers, and could therefore never fit perfectly in his? How fair was it for him to look into a beautiful pair of eyes, judging them not in their own right, but in comparison to the only eyes that had ever truly seen him?

He had spent time at brothels with his brothers and friends, inviting beautiful women for whom he felt nothing to numb the pain. The whores dressed in outfits that reminded him of hers in color and design, but never in the way they were worn. They carried themselves differently, every facet of their body language oozing seduction with a side of regret. Not with passion, nor with pride in who they were and what they did. She had made fishnets and chokers classy and beautiful, because _she_ was classy and beautiful.

At his lowest point, he finally did the unthinkable: he took a wife.

He didn’t have to propose, his mother took care of that, for him. A few words to Lord Cowper and the matter was settled. Anthony and Cressida’s wedding was planned for them, without them. It was a bitter, uncomfortable arrangement. The more Violet pushed Anthony to spend time with her, the less he wanted to. And even when he danced with her in public, for appearance’s sake, she was just plain mean. She made ugly comments about his sisters and their friends, any lord or lady who appeared unkept or unseemly regardless of their character. She even made disparaging comments about Her Majesty The Queen. Anthony wanted nothing to do with her, nor did his siblings. Eventually, even Violet found herself offended by some of Cressida’s cutting remarks, mainly because she became the target of them.

Anthony was able to spend his days apart from Cressida, and his nights as well, thanks to their spacious chambers. But there was one issue he could not overlook; and that was the necessary production of an heir.

“I’m in possession of something you are not,” he had once told his best friend, the Duke. “Brothers.”

Unfortunately, the types of relations Benedict was having were not wont to produce a child anytime soon. Colin had found a place for himself with his new wife’s family in India-and, as he had confessed to Anthony in private, a battlefield injury had rendered him incapable of ever siring children. There was still Gregory, but he was just a boy. His survival into adulthood and ability to produce children could not alone be counted upon to keep the Bridgerton estate and the title of viscount in the immediate family.

So after eight months of lamely pretending to enjoy being a part of each other’s existence, Anthony and Cressida finally consummated their marriage. In every touch, he felt the absence of passion, in every kiss, the absence of love.

In every breath, the absence of _her_.

* * *

Nine months later, Benjamin Bridgerton was born. Anthony had tried to talk Cressida into an A name, to follow the family tradition, but she had been adamant that they were to name him after her great-uncle. She did tell him that he could give the spare whatever name he wanted.

He had talked to Siena about baby names once. She had wanted their firstborn to be named Anthony Jr. He had told her he would rather have a girl, and name it Annasiena, in honor of her and one of his favorite roles she had played.

Anthony loved his son with all his heart, and couldn’t have loved him any more if he had been Siena’s son. But god, Anthony _wished_ he were Siena’s son.

Baby Benjamin was tended by his doting father, and a duo of nannies who worked in shifts around the clock. Cressida wanted to hold her child only in public, in front of an audience, which never worked out well for her because the baby would always cry. He didn’t want to be handled by a near stranger, least of all when he was already overstimulated. Despite these trials of motherhood, and the number that birthing Benjamin had done on her figure, Cressida agreed to deliver another baby.

* * *

On the morning after which Anthony would later learn that he had gotten his wife pregnant for the second time, he decided to go out for a ride alone. Trotted his steed past the gorgeous homes and stables, past the shops and gardens and office buildings. Once he was past city limits, he urged his horse to gallop. Past fields and woods and swamps through the cold, crisp morning air, trying his best to clear his mind.

Until he realized that he had accidentally entered another town. A very small, very poor town. He had gone much further than he had intended to go, and shocked quite a few people with his very presence. They quickly rushed to get him some water for himself and his horse, and to keep him comfortable by their fire. Anthony sat and drank and watched the common people wander about doing chores. Feeding and tending animals and children, cleaning and scrubbing, cooking.

He heard one woman tell her daughter to wait to get dressed because she was washing her clothes. He hadn’t even heard of a person who owned only one outfit before.

He watched people cook their own food over mere fireplaces and recalled the time that he and Daphne had tried to figure out how to turn their stove on.

“’Cuse me, sir? Are you wost?”

Anthony looked over his shoulder. There stood a little girl, no more than two, in a patched-up gingham dress that made her hazel eyes look even greener than they actually were. She had a long face with a perfect button nose and full lips, all of which reminded him of the same thing those features always reminded him of. Long chestnut curls that spilled down to her waist. It was pulled back with a red velvet ribbon. Anthony remembered where he kept such a red velvet ribbon in the safe in his study, hidden away from the prying eyes of the women in his life.

“Are you wost?” the child asked again.

Anthony sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m very lost.”

The little round cheeks lit up. “I hewp you.” She held out a chubby little hand. “Where you house?”

Anthony smiled and pointed down the road. “It’s that way.”

“Oh!” The girl placed one hand on her hip and pointed in the same direction as him, then instructed, “You go that way! Wide hosey!”

“Yes, m’lady.” Anthony saluted her.

“I not Mawady! I A’toya!”

“Oh, my sincerest apologies!” Anthony noticed how thin Antonia was compared to Benjamin, who wasn’t that much littler than her. Places that still should have been baby plump were not.

He retrieved a coin from his pocket and handed it to her.

Her eyes widened. “You buy chicken?”

“What?” He laughed. “No, no. That’s for you! To repay you for your help.”

Her twinkly eyes lit up. “For me? Yay!” She ran over and kissed his stomach, than bolted off.

Anthony watched the toddler’s skinny legs carry her off into the village, then prepared to take his leave. He said a silent prayer of thanks for the things he did have, the things he was able to provide for his family.

He wondered if this time around, Cressida might have a baby girl. According to Violet, that would mean having relations with his wife yet again in order to produce a male spare. But he wanted to have a daughter. One that he could put on his hip and dance with and sing with and buy pretty dresses for. One who he could take care of and protect.

* * *

Six months later, Cressida went into labor. She assumed at first that her contractions were false, but after a few hours, they began coming closer and closer together. Anthony sent for the best doctor money could buy, but before the doctor even arrived, Cressida had given birth to a half-baked, mouthless, sexless child. One who never even had a chance. Despite her top-notch medical care, and her mother’s and Violet’s constant tending, Cressida died within the day.

Anthony mourned her publicly, withdrew from society to the extent possible, and quietly agreed to allow Cressida’s parents to bury her in their family plot.

He cared for Benjamin, brought him along to every place that he deemed suitable for a toddler to be at. He spent extensive amounts of time out in the country with Simon, Daphne, little Abraham, and baby Brianne. Simon commented on what a devoted single father Anthony was, and how graciously he was processing the death of his wife. But Daphne knew better. She knew that Anthony may be mourning the loss of a human being, and certainly regretting that he was unable to save the mother of his son. But he had lost no great love the day Cressida died. That had happened to Anthony nearly three years ago.

* * *

Two months later, the social season began. Anthony, Simon, Daphne, and the children all returned to London a few days early to greet Colin, who was visiting from India. While everyone else was badgering Colin for army stories, Anthony offered to give Colin’s wife, Adeline, a brief tour of their corner of London. He brought her by the flower shop and the jewelry shop, the boutique, and finally Madame Delacroix’s place. A place that Anthony hadn’t dared enter in quite some time, because just passing by it _knowing_ that Siena could be inside visiting her friend had been painful enough. When he and his sister-in-law entered together, Anthony smiled politely at the familiar seamstress. But for a few lines around her face that only served to brighten her smile, she hadn’t aged a minute.

“Good morning, Lord Bridgerton. And is this the new Lady Bridgerton?”

“Lady _Colin_ Bridgerton,” Anthony clarified, then introduced the two women. Adeline wandered off to browse the shop’s selection of samples. To Anthony’s surprise, Genevieve pulled him aside.

“I hate to ask you this,” she said. “I truly do. But…you haven’t heard from _her_ lately, have you?”

Anthony shook his head, even more surprised.

“I can’t say that I have. She’s not performing at the opera house any longer?”

“No. A few months after she left you, she broke up with John Higgins, left the opera house, departed London all together.” Genevieve hesitated. “She hasn’t contacted anyone here since-not me, not her castmates. _No one_. I heard the most ridiculous rumor that she’s living in some poor town twenty miles south-breeding _chickens_ for money. Can you imagine? Our lovely, proud ingenue, cleaning up after a flock of birds? I truly hope it’s not…Lord Bridgerton? Lord Bridgerton?”

Forgetting all else, Anthony bolted out of the shop.

* * *

_Three years earlier_

She had asked him to let her go, and she had tried to mean it.

She had made it all about her, wanting security for her future and a stable, if passionless, relationship. That was how she had sold it to him. But the truth was, it had been as much about protecting him as it had been about protecting herself. Those prying, hostile eyes that would have followed her throughout the ballroom would have absolutely glared daggers at him. They would have held him, not her, responsible for bringing a lowly opera singer into their midst, tarnishing a perfectly good corner of the world. For lifting a wind-up ballerina out of her music box and dancing with her as if she were real.

She would not hurt him, or his family, in that way. She would leave him alone and learn to be happy with John Higgins. John saw her for what she really was, a prima donna to be loved and be laid. And he was fine with that.

She enjoyed John in the daylight and the darkness. When he slept, she snuck out of her bedroom and hid in her broom closet to cry. Then wiped her face clean with a wet washcloth. Then went back to bed.

She could lick her wounds for as long as she needed to, she told herself, but what was done was done.

Then she missed her time of the month.

And then she missed it again.

And then the nausea started to kick in, interrupting her shows and her trysts and attracting the attention of her employer. She managed to convince them she had the flu. But that would not work forever.

Finally, she decided to speak to John Higgins. After all, there was every chance he was the father. She told him of her condition. His response was a shocked gasp, followed by “I’m so sorry, Siena. I can pay for it.”

It took a moment for her to process exactly what “pay for it” meant.

She shook her head. No. She knew of women who had gone to these lengths to remain childless, and while that was all well and good for them, it wasn’t for her. She would give this baby to a good family, or she would raise it herself. But she would not put herself through _that_.

John Higgins insisted, told her there was no other way. That he could never bear to be known as the father of a bastard. She had to have the procedure done. She _had_ to.

She smiled, took the money for the procedure, and told her manager that she needed three days off to recover from her illness. She used those three days to sell her every earthly possession that was worth a damn, including most of her clothes. She left a heartfelt goodbye note for Genevieve, slipped her resignation under the manager’s door, and fled London.

The last longing look she cast was as the Bridgerton house, where she imagined that Anthony was preparing for yet another ball.

She could go to him. He might take care of her, whether the child was his or not. He might take care of her forever

But it could ruin him. If not in the eyes of London, in the eyes of his family.

And what if she was wrong? What if he, like John, thought the shame of having a bastard child would be too great a burden to bear? What if he was with someone else?

What if he truly _had_ let her go?

She made it twenty miles south, spent half her money on a meager shack and the other half on some chickens and supplies for them. Her grandmother had raised and bred chickens. She knew how to care for them. She gave herself the last name of Piccard, wore a fake wedding ring she’d used as part of several costumes, told everyone that her husband was killed in an accident. She wasn’t sure who, if anyone, believed that. But they accepted it. Especially once Siena started providing a useful service to the community. She sold chickens, roosters, and eggs and traded them for other goods and services. Sometimes she even cooked them for people. Her neighbors knew her and liked her. They became protective of her. Anyone who dared question the virtues of Siena Piccard, or the legitimacy of Antonia Piccard’s birth, would find himself face-to-face with the business end of a shotgun.

* * *

For the first six months of her life, Antonia looked the mirror image of her father. Brown hair, brown eyes, roman nose…for a little while, she even had sideburns. And then, she gradually started to morph into Siena’s clone. Which was something of a relief, because the physical resemblance sometimes bordered on painful. But she kept her father’s lighter shade of brown hair. Which was also a relief, because it reminded Siena that her daughter had been conceived in love.

When Antonia’s hair grew long enough, on special days, Siena would tie it back with a long red velvet ribbon. She would fashion it into a bow. Tell her little girl that it would bring her good luck and happiness.

Siena’s heart hurt to think of the life that Antonia was living, compared to the lives of other children whose parents had once frequented her opera house. She felt guilty for not being able to feed her daughter three meals some days, and for not being able to afford more than the bare necessities for her. Sometimes she chastised her for being selfish enough to bring Antonia into the world at all. But at the end if the day, they had love. And they had their lives. It wasn’t enough. But it was something.

* * *

Anthony arrived in the village center on horseback an hour later, still wearing the suit he had been wearing while shopping with Adeline. And just like last time he was here, everyone looked up and stared at him, wondering what a finely dressed gentleman like himself could possibly be doing.

Oh lord, he had not thought this through, had he?

“Can I help you, good sir?” asked a young man smudged all over with dirt.

“Ah…yes. I came here to buy a chicken.”

“You rode here all the way from London to buy a chicken?”

“We were out.”

“Ay…I see,” the man exchanged a bemused look with a few other folks. “Did you want to buy this chicken from anyone in particular?”

“No, no, certainly not. Just the uh, person who makes the chickens. I mean, _sells_ the chickens.”

“Aight, then. We can walk you over to the widow Piccard’s place. Can’t we, boys?” A few other men nodded in agreement. They showed Anthony where to tie his horse to a hitching post. Anthony also took off his jacket, in the vain hope that perhaps being in only his shirt and trousers would make him look less out of place. When he saw that not two, not three, but _ten_ men were about to escort him, he forced a smile and released a ragged breath he hadn’t known he was holding in. He was beyond grateful that Siena and Antonia had this sort of protection, although he hoped they wouldn’t feel they required it from _him._

That was assuming he was correct in believing Mrs. Piccard to be an alias. _Please_ let it be an alias…

One look at her from the side, and his heart stopped.

It was her.

She had her head wrapped in a long, black, inelegant scarf, and her clothes were a dull brick-red with green and blue patches. But it was her.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Piccard!” called one of the men.

Siena looked up to smile, then did a double take when her hazel eyes met Anthony’s.

She dropped her basket of eggs. He rushed to go pick it up, then froze to see if she was going to get angry or tell him to go away.

She didn’t. She looked shocked. But not angry.

“An…Lord Bridgerton?”

“My apologies, miss,” Anthony picked up her basket of eggs, then with trembling fingers, checked to see if any of them were cracked. He handed the basket back to her, a shock like fire rushing through his veins when their fingers touched as she took the handle.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, silently taking in sight of the other after so many years.

“He came here to buy a chicken!” a random villager helpfully supplied.

Siena cleared her throat.

“Thank you, Mr. Evans. I can take it from here.”

They only moved when Siena waved them off and she pretended to be showing Anthony around the yard where the chicken coops were kept. When everyone was gone, she wordlessly led him into her house.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“I had some help from a little bird. Named Antonia,” Anthony confessed. He told her everything about how he had seen Antonia many months earlier, and how he had put her parentage together with the information he’d learned from Genevieve.

“Where is she anyway? Antonia?” Anthony asked.

“She’s sleeping,” Siena gestured to the trundle bed in the corner.

Anthony moved to get a closer look. His daughter was a little taller now, a little older. But she was even thinner than he remembered. In her sleep, she looked like a baby angel.

She was his baby, who he had never known.

“Siena, how could you not…”

“I couldn’t do that to you,” she finally finished. “You had a life to live, a family to care for…”

“An heir to produce? What if she had been a boy?”

“But she’s not a boy,” Siena reminded Anthony. “You still need an heir, Anthony. A legitimate one.”

“I already have one.” He told her about Cressida, and Benjamin, and Cressida’s death.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Anthony shook his head.

“All there is for me to do now is to be there for my children. Both of my children.”

“We’re fine, Anthony.” Her voice shook. It was plain that they were not fine.

"What if I'm not fine? Antonia is just as much my child as Benjamin.”

“ _Is_ she?” Siena’s voice rose. “Anthony, you told me to go! You told me you would always protect me, and then you told me to leave and never come back. I couldn’t even trust you to be there for _me_. How am I supposed to trust you to be there for _her?”_

Siena froze, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. She had finally admitted-not just to herself, but to Anthony, too-the real reason why she hadn’t taken him back no matter how badly she had wanted to, why she hadn’t come to him when she was pregnant or any other time.

“Siena,” Anthony stepped closer to her. “I can’t begin to apologize enough for what I put you through that day and every day after. The worst thing I have ever done is what I did to you. And I have lived with that guilt, and that shame, and that regret every single day since.”

She looked away, in a futile attempt to hide the fact that she was starting to cry. He handed her a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Every day since you asked me to let you go, I’ve seen you everywhere. In every song, in every sunrise, in all things red and black and wonderful. Not half a day has gone by that you haven’t crossed my mind. Some days, you’re all that’s on my mind. And you were right. I was lost. But all this time, what I was looking for was you. I love you, Siena. I have never loved anyone else. I never _will_ love anyone else.”

He watched her, damp cheeks and dry, wide, disbelieving eyes.

“If you choose to never love me again after what I’ve done, I cannot fault you for that. Not one bit. But please, I’m begging you; give me the opportunity to be the father Antonia deserves. I can be in your lives in whatever way you’re comfortable with. You can stay here, and I’ll visit. Or you can come back to the apartment. Or we can even get married and move into my house.” Siena looked up. “And if my mother doesn’t enjoy it, then screw her, that’s what she gets for making me put up with Cressida Cowapples for two years.”

“Did you just ask me to marry you?”

“I…suppose I did. Forgive me.”

“I don’t think that’s the proper way to ask a lady for her hand.”

“Well…may I?” She nodded. Anthony got down on one knee and took her hand in his.

“Siena Rosso, my darling, my one true love, my everything…will you marry me?”

“Do you mean it?” she asked.

“With all my heart.”

“Do you absolutely mean it?”

“With all my heart and soul. Will you-”

“Yes.” Anthony stood up, pulled Siena into his arms, and kissed her longer and harder than he had ever kissed anyone in his life, hardly able to believe this was real. She was here. He was hers.

"Of course I love you," she whispered. "I never stopped."


End file.
